A conspiracy of paper: a novel - By David Liss Page 0,123

in a private room between two unmarried people can be interpreted in many ways, especially by malicious tongues.”

“True enough,” I agreed with some embarrassment, stinging a bit from Miriam’s exclusion of her wayward cousin from the family business.

She said nothing, and I shifted uncomfortably in the silence. I believe Miriam took some small pleasure at having me upon the rack, and smiled sweetly at me for some minutes before speaking. “Have you come on a social call, or do you have business with Mr. Lienzo?”

For reasons I cannot explain, this question put me at my ease. I settled comfortably into my chair. “Rather a bit of both, I think.”

“I hope more the former than the latter,” she said, smiling. “And if you have come to be sociable, then perhaps you would like to take a walk with me,” she suggested. “I long to examine some of the goods at the market, and I would welcome your company.”

I could hardly refuse the offer, so I silently determined to postpone my visit to South Sea House until the next morning. Miriam disappeared to ready herself, and after perhaps a quarter of an hour she reentered the room with an unexpected slowness, as though she were a child called forth for punishment. She held in her hand an envelope.

“There is a matter I must discuss, Mr. Weaver. I know not how to account for the generosity you showed in sending me so enormous a sum, and I do not wish to insult you, but considering the accompanying note, I believe there has been some small error. Your letter suggested that I had made a request of you. I cannot say how you made this error. Though I admit I am none the most sufficient in money, I am afraid I cannot accept a gift that is clearly not intended for me.”

She handed me the envelope, which I absently dropped into my pocket. “Do you mean to say,” I began incredulously, “that you sent me no note requesting this amount?”

“I fear I know not of what you speak.” She looked down to conceal the blush that spread along her face and neck. “I sent no note.”

I had been dealing with thieves and felons too long not to know when someone unpracticed in the art ineptly attempted a lie. Miriam now had reasons for not wishing to accept the money of me, and I would not press her to say why, or act as though I misbelieved her.

“I am greatly sorry to have caused such an embarrassment. I fear some prankster must have played a little joke upon us. We shall say no more of it.”

Miriam smiled with gratitude and told me she wished to visit the market at Petticoat Lane, but by the time Miriam and I arrived it was late for the market, and much of the best of the perishables had been taken. Consequently, the market was not bursting with activity—yet it was far from empty. Around us was a busy crowd, principally of Jewish women, who strolled from vendor to vendor, examining the wares. Around us the hawkers shouted at us in Spanish, Portuguese, English, and even the language of the Tudescos—a curious mixture of Hebrew and German.

Miriam had, I was beginning to learn, a sense of purpose about her that ordered the chaos of the marketplace. She took her time, strolling from one stall to the next, examining this piece of linen or that of silk. Many of the merchants—mostly men of middle years who found themselves seduced by Miriam’s beauty—called out to her as she passed. She offered a bow to each, but stopped only where she wished to examine goods.

“Mr. Lienzo prefers that when I make purchases, I buy all I can here,” she explained to me. “He likes that the money should remain among our people.”

“He is a conscientious man,” I observed.

She said nothing at first, but there was a look of mischief in her eyes. “Too conscientious, I sometimes think. It is certainly possible to be overly nice in one’s dedication to his community, don’t you agree? If we are to be accepted in England, surely we must learn to act as the English do.”

“We shall never be accepted here,” I said with a conviction that surprised me. I did not think of myself as having strong feelings on this subject, but when she asked, I found these words flowed freely: “This is not our country. We shall never be English and our children will never